A morning after Plath

A morning after Plath

There are no stones

For me to wake

They are as cold

As the snakes that lie

Beneath them

Morning births

An early warning

Of summer

A slew of rare

Black Cockatoos

Colonise a roost

As they make their way

To god knows where

No sooner do I draw attention

To their appearance,

But they are gone

Was I dreaming?

The last kiss of winter

Lifts the hairs on my neck

Either that or

I walk with the dead.

It is an apocalyptic landscape,

A midnight storm

Tossed leagues of deep sea

Across the promenade

And onto the street.

I walk in sand

Up to my knees

I could paint a

Good-looking picture

Of surreal seaweed

Twisted blisters

Full of rot and disease

That is the nature

Of romance

It is blind to reality.